OK, I’m back before something seriously weird happens in the comments.
A good day today. Edinburgh is currently taking a snowy flaky beating, making this a great day for snowboarding practice ahead of my wee holiday to Chamonix on the 29th. The excitement of Swindon’s roundabouts earlier this month was good but left me wanting more.
Now as we all know, dry ski slopes are made of giants’ used toothbrushes. This lets people skite down them in a manner mostly unlike snow and tear friction holes in their expensive trousers and skin. Additionally, a bottom layer of depleted uranium ensures that boarders suffer vivid-plum assbone bruising on every swear-filled tumble.
So for added confidence on the fatal slopes today I was wearing what are amusingly called impact shorts.
Imagine a pair of shorts partially lined with plastic (crucially over the coccyx) such that they hold their shape like a suit of armour. Actually now I think about it they are exactly like, and in no way different from, a suit of armour. In fact, think Ass Armour.
Abbreviated to Assmour, possibly. Even though that’s a plausible contraction of Ass Amour; which is much more likely to stain your waterproofs.
Suffice it to say that despite a handful of genuinely bum-shredding misadventures I am completely uninjured. Hail to Ass Armour!
The funniest bit was, however:
When you are a bloke on your own doing the old gaytray practice, there is some limited bonding and comradeship with other equally lonely and bruised men.
I had already exchanged a few polite words with one such chap (“Hella windy eh?”, “Aye, mental”, “No I don’t have a lighter”, etc.) while waiting for the tow.
As I joined the tow queue after one spectacular wipeout, the same woolly-hatted bloke turned to me with a grin and rapped noisily on his – evidently – armoured buttock, to smugly show off his impact shorts.
Not to be outdone (and too far away to talk), I offered a thumbs-up and knuckled back a loud acknowledgement on my own plastic buttocks. It was at this point – seeing the faces in the queue – I realised we were standing grinning like morons and furtively tapping asses at one another in some gay morse code.
There should be a warning on the packaging.
19-Jan-05 at 2:45 pm | Permalink
Chamonix > European home of snowboarding. Apparently the boarding is only rivalled by the nightlife. Jealous as hell of your spare time. Enjoy & take photos. And when you become a SuperContractor consider Courchevel. I’m coming too.
Giants used toothbrushes > Aye. As well as being responsible for a multitude of nights slept on tummys, drymat is also well nasty for taking lumps out of you. One guy from ski and snowboard club last year landed wrongly and left sans a pinky. Nice.
Assmour > Pansy.
Gay morse code > That is the funniest thing I’ve read in my life to date. Well done.
20-Jan-05 at 6:41 pm | Permalink
I remember the posho farm owner’s kids used to ski in the field behind my hoose. Couldn’t they just sledge using bags of hay like the rest of us?
I’m terrified of skiing (‘skiing’ is a fun word to type. ‘Skiing’) as I worry my legs would come apart all funny when trying to avoid a tree stump, like in some sort of cartoon someone made once. I do, however, think I am just about ‘Xtreem’ enough for snowboarding. I’m really good at SSX on the PS2, so’s I am. I like Kaori. She’s swell. Tee hee.
Snow is rad, and surprises my eyes when I open the curtains at 2PM.